


Progressive Collapse

by wubz-bubx-redux (Inorganic_soot)



Series: Memory is a Fickle Thing [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Almost Fisting, Anal Sex, Animal Death, Chair Sex, Dark!Ford, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Morality, Fingering, Gaslighting, Hand & Finger Kink, Headaches & Migraines, Hunting, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Memory Alteration, Mind Manipulation, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Riding, Rimming, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-09 23:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11679609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inorganic_soot/pseuds/wubz-bubx-redux
Summary: Stan forgets many things, but he does not forget his brother.In other words, how much of Stan has Ford whittled away?“Ford? What’re you—” His voice is deep, coarse with sleep. His breath hitches as the memories of last night return and he hesitates, pulling himself into a sitting position. “Where are my clothes?” He says quietly. “I remember falling asleep in my clothes.”“I can’t recall.” Ford does not want to tell him that he stripped him while he slept. It was for entirely altruistic reasons, it would be more comfortable for Stan this way; the rush of running his hands across his brother’s unconscious body was only an indirect yet welcome benefit.





	1. Chiaroscuro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chiaroscuro is an oil painting technique, developed during the Renaissance, that uses strong tonal contrasts between light and dark to model three-dimensional forms. The underlying principle is that solidity of form is best achieved by the light falling against it.
> 
> (credit to Wikipedia)

Stan is beginning to shift beneath the sheets, body curved like a question mark, clutching the pillow next to him, a soundless plea for Ford to return. Ford does not move. The grey light of dawn stains the room; it is reminiscent of the same endless monotone of his brother’s mindscape.

He feels at peace for perhaps the first time in his existence. Stan is his, marred by his teeth and come. His claim is indisputable. It is an exquisite feeling.

His brother is murmuring slightly, words muffled by the soft fabric against his face. Quiet, troubled moans escape his mouth. Ford can recognise a nightmare. He walks forward and sits close to Stan, the bed dipping beneath him. His brother is shivering now and Ford pauses to appreciate the vulnerability of his form, sleep-soft and unguarded.

“Stanley.” His voice is comforting. “It’s alright, you’re safe.”

Ford places his hand on Stan’s neck, his thumb stroking the jut of his jawbone. Stan startles awake, his veins fluttering beneath Ford’s fingers.

“Ford? What’re you—” His voice is deep, coarse with sleep. His breath hitches as the memories of last night return and he hesitates, pulling himself into a sitting position. “Where are my clothes?” He says quietly. “I remember falling asleep in my clothes.”

“I can’t recall.” Ford does not want to tell him that he stripped him while he slept. It was for entirely altruistic reasons, it would be more comfortable for Stan this way; the rush of running his hands across his brother’s insentient body was only an indirect yet welcome benefit. “But I prefer you better like this.” Ford slips his hand between the sheets and rubs the thin skin of Stan’s inner thigh, right where his boxers have hitched up. And Stan reddens, his knees drawing close like a young ingénue.

Ford can tell his attentions are not unwanted from the way the tent in the bed sheet grows more and more noticeable with each stroke of his fingers against the smoothness of Stan’s skin.

“Ford.” His brother reaches out to hold his wrist loosely. “Ford, stop.” He sounds breathy. “We’re brothers, _Chrissakes_. We can’t be doing this. It’s insane.” There is slightly more firmness in his tone. His grip tightens.

_Interesting._

Ford hums in response. He had never expected Stan to be held back by societal pressure, considering how regularly he flouts most laws and standards of common decency. A small miscalculation on his part. But it is of little long-term relevance, he has always been excellent at convincing Stan to see things his way. It is only a matter of days before his brother submits to both of their needs.

A shiver courses through him. He is electrified at the prospect of the game that is to come, and it’s even more thrilling reward.

“Ford, are you even listening to me—?” Stan’s voice is splintering beneath the weight of his own self-denial.

Ford’s heart melts with pity. There is no stopping this, no asceticism is possible; he has tried. He bends his head and captures his brother’s mouth in a kiss. His twin’s hold on him loosens and he slides his hand up into Stan’s boxers and grasps the hard length of his dick.

Stan tenses, the flush on his cheeks spreading, travelling down into his chest. He opens his mouth, trying in vain to form a coherent sentence but his resolve weakens and he moans, a faint sound. His eye are glazed with heat, cataracts milky swirls in the black pools of his pupils. Ford hasn’t even moved his hand.

He grazes the head with his thumb, a light, teasing touch which causes Stan to collapse against the headboard. Ford is inundated with desire. _Stan is so sensitive._

A truly heady thought enters his mind, “Tell me, when was the last time anyone touched you like this, Stanley?” He keeps his tone clinical, detached but there’s a dark swell in it. He cannot hide it.

Stan, if possible, blushes hotter and looks up at the ceiling. “Thirty years.” He sounds so embarrassed, so ashamed. “Maybe longer.”

This is a better response than Ford had expected and he repays Stan with a deft twist of his wrist as he strokes him. Ford is breathing heavily, filled with possessive desire. “You’re so good to me, Lee. You waited for such a long time. You _waited_ for me.”

“It – it wasn’t like that. Didn’t have the time. _Ungh_. Or the – the energy.” Stan is gripping the sheets tightly, trying to find an anchor in the sweeping tide of emotions Ford is bringing out in him. It is gorgeous.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, little brother.” He manoeuvres Stan onto his side, kicking off the blanket and curling up behind him. They fit together so perfectly, like jigsaws, like they must have in the womb. His erection rubs against Stan’s backside. “But remember, I know better.” He thrusts forward, so Stan’s length is pushed into his fist, so that his brother can feel him.

“ _Sixer, stop_.”

Ford complies and removes his hand, tracing the jut of his hip, testing the elastic of his boxers before pushing them down so that the material gathers at his thighs, restricting his movements ever so slightly. Stan hisses at the loss of contact, shivering as he feels the cold air rush to enfold him. He unconsciously moves closer to Ford, who radiates heat behind him.

Ford is peppering kisses along Stan’s neck, one arm stretched out above him, his other hand skating along Stan’s ribs. He nuzzles the sensitive patch of skin where skull joins spine and Stan is thrusting into air, his cock an angry red that he can see over his brother’s shoulder. It is the first time Ford has seen Stan naked in the daylight and he feels foolish and a tad narcissistic, but he finds the lewd line of his brother arresting.

He stretches the threadbare fabric of Stan’s undershirt aside and mouths at the burn mark. A permanent brand on his brother’s skin.  He licks his way up and presses his teeth against Stan’s shoulder, a suggestion of a bite.

Stan’s chest is heaving like he cannot draw enough air and it reminds him of his brother’s childhood asthma. He remembers the whistle of Stan’s lungs as his bronchioles constricted, the panic in his face. He was so scared during those times, but he wouldn’t let Stan know. He would only hold his brother’s hand, and count his breaths. He does that now, interlocking their fingers and placing them on Stan’s belly, feeling every expansion and contraction.

Stan is whining low in his throat, his nipples are hard nubs chafing against white cloth. His cock bobs in front of him, head purpled and weeping onto the sheets.

“You have to ask, Stanley. I won’t touch you until you ask.” His voice is lust drunk.

“Ford, don’t make me. I – I don’t—” Stan sounds insensible.

“You did yesterday.”

_“Fuck you.”_

Isn’t his brother full of surprises? He was worried that he might have overdone it with the spell, changed Stan too much. But this is perfect, this is his _brother_. Stan is reaching down to his own cock and, one hand still entwined with Ford’s and oh—

He’s touching himself, brazenly. He’s moving so fast, his hand a blur; evidently, he’s been on edge and requires relief. Ford considers stopping him, taking their interlaced fingers and reaching down so that they can get him off together, but he doesn’t. Each motion pushes him back onto Ford’s hardness. Yet Ford pays himself no heed, studying the methodical way his brother gets himself off, storing the information away for later.

The steady sound of skin against skin fills the air and it feels surprisingly empty, wanting. Stan is biting his bottom lip and that just won’t do.

“I want to hear you.” He whispers into Stan’s ear, breath humid and warm. He rolls his hips.

Stan stiffens, a choked whisper of _Ford_ escapes him. His eyes close and he’s coming, his release smearing his hand, it is all over the already filthy bed sheets.

Ford leans forward and places a soft kiss on Stan’s cheek. Stan looks shaken, betrayed by himself. It causes a smile to tug at Ford’s lips.

Stan does not resist when he licks the come of his hands, only studies him with a frightening intensity.

_Unto the victors the spoils._

* * *

 

It is approaching midnight when Ford decides to go upstairs and rest. The portal lies gutted in front of him, ready to be salvaged for spare parts. Only the barest suggestion of its shape remains – a triangular framework. The sight feels like a conclusion, the end of his nightmare with Bill and that thought buoys him. He is done. It is time for a newer, better chapter in his life to start.

And he has begun writing it. His life is finally under his control.

The house is eerily quiet when Ford emerges from the basement. Stan has been avoiding Ford studiously. He ducks out of the living room whenever Ford leaves his laboratory, makes excuses every time Ford asks him to have dinner with him and it is fantastically ironic. Stan has always sought him out, has always begged for his attention. His rebuffs don’t alarm Ford, there is something deeply satisfying about his heedless, headstrong brother running away from him; it makes Ford feel powerful. Stan has ceded to him.

Even so, there are still some worrying irregularities in Stan’s behaviour. He holds his head more often, rubbing at his temples when he thinks Ford is not watching him; he closes the curtains and the lights so that the house is submerged in a pleasant, intimate half-light; he turns off his hearing aids and no longer watches the television. It does not take a genius to deduce that his brother is in pain.

He hadn’t expected that. It is likely the result of his neural connections being forcibly altered and obliterated. Minds, it appears, do not like being rewritten, especially not ones as old as Stan’s. The thought makes him chew the inside of his cheek, an old habit he appears not to have lost. The memory gun must not have been as powerful as he had wanted. He can only hope the spell is strong enough that it doesn’t matter.

An inebriating rush of memory fills him as climbs up the stairs, it almost disappoints him that Stan is not there, waiting for him. Ford does not consider confronting him though. They will run out of painkillers soon and Stan will come to him of his own accord, it will be better that way. He’s surprised that Stan has not given up yet, modern medicine can do little to treat the ache he is feeling.

The walk to his bedroom is quick. When the door creaks open, he is surprised to find that there is a figure lying on his bed.

“Finally, you’re here. I’ve been waiting for you for hours.” Stan sounds exhausted, his voice tight with pain. “You gotta fix me, Sixer. Don’t know what you did but fuck, it _hurts_.”

He lays a gentle hand on Stan’s shoulder, his brother is curled up in the foetal position, the blankets drawn around him. His head cradled in his hands, fingers partially obscuring his eyes and ears. Stan should not have waited for so long, he should have come to Ford sooner.

“You stupid, stubborn man.” There is no bite in his tone, he runs his hands through Stan’s greasy, dishevelled hair, fingers scratching against his brother’s scalp. Stan leans into his touch, desperate for comfort. “You have to get up for this.” Ford tugs him upward, Stan rests against him, unable to support his own weight.

“It hurts so much Ford. Please, make it better. I’ll do _anything_.” He’s slurring, wobbling on his knees. Ford keeps him upright, one arm curling around Stan and pressing them chest to chest.

“Look into my eyes, Stanley.” Ford commands.

It takes a moment but eventually Stan’s fever-bright gaze focuses in on his own. He looks intoxicated. Ford bites his thumb hard enough to draw blood and uses it to draw a crude symbol on Stan’s brow, the sweat causes the blood to spread, each line losing shape. He must hurry.

“Ford?” Stan sounds tense and it is not just from pain, he shrinks away from his twin when Ford turns his face up and presses his mouth against the mark in a facsimile of a kiss, his lips graze the lines of Stan’s forehead as he whispers something in a language no human ears besides Ford’s own have heard for centuries. The symbol glows a harsh red, shining in the darkness before disappearing. The effect is immediate, Stan’s shoulder loosen and he slopes heavily against his brother, his arms around Ford’s neck.

He looks unfocused, soft and heartrendingly grateful. “Thank you.” He mumbles, struggling to hold his head upright.

Stan does not know that Ford has done far more than relieve him off his pain, he has strengthened the writhing magic inside of him. His fate is final, sealed; there is one more twist in the lock.

He lays Stan back down on his bed and there is something sublime about seeing him here. Stan nuzzles his face against his pillow and inhales, “Smells like you.” Ford does not know if he was supposed to hear that.

Stan raises a hand and pulls him near. “C’mere, Sixer. I wanna talk.”

Ford allows himself to be guided next to Stanley so that they are both lying on their fronts, heads turned to face each other; they used to do this when they were young, talk into the night next to each other. He looks at Stan inquiringly.

“I don’t remember much, Ford. You gotta know that. I don’t even remember _this_.” He waves his hand, fingers loose.

Ford takes a moment to understand. “I – We’ve never had a physical relationship, before that night, I mean, Stanley.” It is best not to lie too much.

“Oh, thank god. Thought I was missing a huge chunk of my life, thought I had most of you back, and I can’t really imagine it, Ford. Us doing it before. Doesn’t feel right.”

“I’ve loved you for a very long time.” Ford lowers his gaze, aiming to appearing vulnerable.

“I know. I think I always have.” Stan’s tone is unreadable

Ford raises his eyebrow. “I didn’t think I was alone in feeling this way.”

“My head hurts every time I think of you.” A non sequitur. “It’s like, there are two images of you in my mind and they’re fighting and you have no idea, it hurts so much.” There was a tremble in his voice, the mere thought of the pain causing tears to gather at the corner of his eyes.

“You – You always repressed it, I believe. I know that you used to watch me when we were kids. There was always something between us. It was a topic you never liked to dwell on.” Ford says this slowly, carefully. He hadn’t anticipated this, Stan quizzing him about their youth in his darkened bedroom.

Stan makes a soft noise, “I guess that makes sense.” He frowns slightly, “So that night was our first time.”

“Yes, Stanley, it was.”

Stanley rolls onto his back, and looks up at the ceiling. “Why were you in my room? A week before the whole thing, I saw you and suddenly, my head doesn’t feel like it’s screwed on straight.”

Ford laughs, “That’s love for you, Stan. I don’t claim to fully understand it but it changes everything, your mind and your body.” He knits their hands together, it seems like the right thing to do.

“I’ve always loved you.” Stan’s voice is surprisingly firm. “Even when I didn’t know your name, I looked at you and I knew you were important but that was different. What I learnt that night was—”

“I wanted to help you remember that part about yourself, the one you’ve been hiding.” Ford is proud of himself, this is a mere stone’s throw from the truth. “I wanted you to remember everything.  I may have gotten overzealous and that must have affected you.” His voice is a shade too earnest. “It was buried so deep, I didn’t intend to hurt you. I apologize.”

“And you were sure I felt this way?” Stan sounds genuinely curious.

“I know you, Lee. I was right too, I knew I was not alone in this. You wouldn’t have responded to my advances if you didn’t want me.”

“Why now, Sixer?” Stan pauses, his tongue peaks out, glistening with saliva as it sweeps across the swell of his bottom lip. “Why’d you kiss me that night? Why did you wait for so long and then—?”

“Stan, I cannot fully rationalise my actions because, in truth, they are irrational. I learnt many things while in that portal, not only about the universe but about myself. I admit that I, too, was plagued with shame about the nature of my feelings towards you but after seeing so many things, so many awful things, I learnt that you must carve out any joy you can find in this world and never let it go.” Ford sighs, the honesty weighing on him. “I dreamt of you every night.”

Stan is silent, processing what he has heard, weighing its credibility. “Why did you get angry when I opened the portal and brought you back?”

“I told you Stan, I was worried about you. You jeopardized your safety, the children’s safety.” Ford closes his eyes and recalls the anger, the sickly-sweet and all-consuming fear he felt when he saw the portal open; his heart frozen at the thought of Stanley, the only beautiful thing he had to himself, hurt.

“I guess it makes sense, it didn’t even matter to me. The kids did but nothing else. I must’ve loved you something fierce. I still do, everything’s just so fuzzy. 30 years of my life I spent trying to bring you home, guess I had to have loved you like that. S’only thing that makes sense.” Stan sounds thoughtful, but his words are melding into one another. He looks so tired. His eyelids drooping, breathing slowly and deeply.

Ford tugs his coat around the both of them, cocooning them in his body heat and scent. Stan will smell like him tomorrow. He feels satisfied, tired. “Goodnight, Stanley.”

Exhaustion pulls him to the precipice of sleep. Just as he’s about to fall he hears a quiet, “Sweet dreams, Sixer.”


	2. Craquelure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The craquelure on a painting is the network, or pattern, of cracks that develops across the surface as the paint layers age and shrink. Most pictures of any age show craquelure everywhere at the surface. It is common for the cracking to extend into the varnish. It can be very disfiguring, particularly when cracks in light-coloured paint layers become filled in with dirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for behaviour that is sorta self-harming in the kitchen scene's last bit

Stan is sprawled across the burgundy armchair, skinny legs stuck out straight in front of him, his fingers are drumming incessantly against one of his machines. His eyes are fixed on Ford’s workbench, watching his brother dismantle another part of the portal. He can see Stan’s reflection in the sheen of the metal, he hasn’t looked away once and it has been hours. The computer is still on, the greenish glow combined with the slightly concavity of the metal plate make him look ethereal, a figure from a dream. _Curiouser and curiouser._

“You don’t have to be here if you’re bored, Stanley.” He adds a veiled sharpness to his tone, knowing his brother will pick up on it.

Stan startles at Ford’s words, his drops his gaze but grips his knees with suppressed irritation. Stan was always quick to fight. It is hard to tell in this light but it looks like he’s blushing. How odd. “M’not bored, just want to see what you do down here all day, Sixer.”

A lie.

Ford tries to make himself sound as condescending as possible. It is for the sake of science, for discovery. “I highly doubt you’ll understand the technicalities of what I’m doing here—”

“Don’t start, Poindexter. I know a decent amount of your quantum mechano-electrodynamics whatever-the-fuck. I may not be the smart twin but I did study from the same books you did for _thirty years_.” Stan is livid. This is excellent. He is so bad at hiding anything when he’s angry.

“So you keep reminding me.” Another nudge.

“Sometimes you gotta be reminded, Ford. Took me losing my fucking mind to get a thank you out of you.” Stan has risen from the chair, eyes wild and bright, like a wounded animal that’s been cornered.

“Stan, I’m grateful. I truly am. But I’m busy right now and you’re distracting me.” He turns away, maintaining a persona of long-suffering calm. He’s playing Stan so beautifully.

“I’m _distracting_ you. I haven’t said a fucking word for the past,” Stan turns his head and checks the clock, aghast and painfully furious, “3 hours. Do you even hear yourself or does bullshit just spill out of your mouth without you even noticing?”

“Don’t be so crude.” His sneer of disgust is genuine, Stanley has always been immature. Ford refocuses, deciding to push his experiment a little farther, test his hypothesis. He can feel Stan looming up behind him. “Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be swindling someone right around now?”

“I like watching you work! That’s what you wanna hear? Fuck’s sake, don’t you get lonely down here, Ford.” Stan is yelling, gesticulating wildly.

Ford pushes his chair back and stands. His brother is silent now, panting. Eyes fixed on the table, where Ford is leaning his weight against his hands. He can see his brother swallow, pupils dilating.

“Sometimes I just wanna punch you, Sixer.” Stan mumbles, scrubbing his face with his sleeve. “Why do you gotta do this to me?”

“Come here, Stanley.” He leans forward and embraces his brother. Stan melts against him, holding him in a vice-like grip as if he’s a dying man clinging to the last vestiges of life. “Is this what you wanted?” He runs a hand through Stan’s hair and he hears a groan. He does it again, pulling harder this time, and Stan is putty in his arms.

“When I’m with you, my head doesn’t hurt.” The words are pulled out from his chest.

Oh.

This is a _very_ interesting development.

 

* * *

 

The sun is surprisingly bright and hot. The snow shines with a burning intensity under its glare. It is rare that Ford takes the time to simply exist and he feels that today, he should reward himself.

It is silent and the drink in his hands is blissfully warm. He closes his eyes and breathes, tipping his head back against the rough wood of the Mystery Shack.

Everything around him is finally perfect, and he is compelled to immortalise it. His journal is beside him and he admires the richness of the leather against his skin, the weight of the paper, the indentations each of his drawings have left behind. He is luxuriating in the simplest feelings: a well-bound book, a hot cup of coffee.

He is sketching, and before he knows it, the vague likeness of the forest is taking shape on the page in front of him. He worries his lip between his teeth as he tries to capture the dimensions of the totem pole, his hair falling in front of him. He hasn’t done this in so long, not since he was a boy.

He hears a creak of wood and jerks. Stan is leaning against the open screen door, face red and guilty, eyes still lingering on the pen in his hands. He obviously had not intended for Ford to know he was there, watching him. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, dark smudges beneath the whiteness of his sclera. He looks so broken, so scared, so lovely. Ford wants to draw him, commit the deep lines of his face onto paper.

This is pitifully easy.

He makes sure to leave his journal out later that day, lying innocuously on the table, opened to one of his sketches of Stanley.

 

* * *

 

Ford decides to indulge Stan. When Stan returns from his shower, pink-cheeked and damp, his hair wet and dark, droplets clinging to his skin, he finds Ford in the kitchen. Ford is skillfully tossing mushrooms on a spitting frying pan.

He can’t seem to process the image in front of him, blinking his eyes rapidly.

“You can cook?” He sounds shocked.

“I survived without you for a long time.” Ford is only mildly offended.

“It’s just, I’ve never seen you do it. Always imagined you thought it was beneath you or something.” Stan pulls himself onto the counter-top, a remarkably graceful movement. He settles with a soft sigh, swinging his legs back and forth childishly. He does not look away from Ford. Ford finds this pleasant.

Stan is quiet for the most part save for a few occasions. He hears a soft inhalation of breath when he squeezes a lemon between his fingers, the juice wetting his fingers just barely. He licks it off with a lewd pop. He hears a moan.

But perhaps the most damning thing is the way Stan has to shift when he’s using a knife. Ford’s sleeves are rolled up, the sweater leaves a faint red imprint on the fragile skin of his inner-elbow. It is the most skin he has exposed outside of the confines of his room. He feels exposed like this but it is worth it. The muscles of his forearm bunch and curl under his skin as he delicately slices a chicken breast. Stan’s gaze is heavy, a warm weight resting on Ford’s lungs.

When they sit down for dinner that night Stan is oddly silent, his head down-turned. He thinks Ford does not notice that rather than concentrating on his food, he is captivated by the elegant slide of the fork and knife wielded by Ford’s deft fingers.

When they are done he levers himself off the table, and ushers Ford out of the room. “I’ll clean up, Sixer. You’ve done enough.” He sounds frantic.

Ford obliges him and the kitchen door shuts abruptly once he is out, leaving him in the darkness. He waits and his ears prick, he can hear a soft thump as Stan slides down onto the floor, the groan of wood as he lies back, the gentle slap of skin against skin as he rests his head in his hands. There is such a thin barrier between them. He feels the reverberations as Stan repeatedly hits his head against the wall. Thud. Thud. Thud.

When Ford walks down to his laboratory he hums, there is a certain lightness in each of his steps.

 

* * *

 

 It is December 21st and the snow is wretchedly deep.

“Sixer, I don’t know why we can’t just wait for the plough to come in—”

“Unless you happen to have some emergency rations tucked away somewhere, we’re going to go hungry. Stanley, we need food now and all of nature’s bounty is at our doorstep.” He makes a grandiose gesture towards the towering trees of the forest barely visible through their frost-opaqued window. Ford is half-sarcastic.

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m letting you go out there alone. You might never come back.” The last sentence is spoken almost inaudibly, intended to be lost to winter air.

Ford does not let it go but he pretends he has not heard it. “I’ve done this dozens of times. You don’t have to come.”

“And miss out on seeing my nerdy twin brother try to kill something twice his size?”

Oh. Maybe Stan does understand the true purpose of this outing.

A thrill runs through him, he does love a captive audience.

 

* * *

 

The walk is long and arduous. Ford has never found the cold particularly enjoyable but it is a necessary evil. Their supplies have dwindled at an unexpectedly quick rate, it appears that neither are used to accounting for the needs of another person in their lives. This feels ironic.

He knows could have resolved the matter more easily. He could have called the town and asked for them to clear out the snow in front of the house days ago, but he’s been planning this. The tension has been spiraling upwards day after endless day. He is a patient man, but he is by no definition a saint.

Stan is in front of him, moving slowly, carefully. He can hear the faint wheeze in Stan’s lungs, the almost tangible constriction around his rib cage; the chill in the air is not kind to his brother. His chest is puffed out in an attempt to appear larger and more intimidating. It is nearly comical.

The game in Gravity Falls reminds him of its residents, both cultivate a reckless ignorance towards danger. This fact has always made his life much, much simpler. It rewards him again when he finds a deer sunning itself in a clearing, defenseless in its sleep. He moves closer.

He raises the crossbow which is as familiar to him as his own hands. He traces the curve of the lath, wood rough and textured against the pads of his fingers. He strokes the taut string, watching it mold beneath his touch, feels the tension in it before notching a steel-tipped arrow.

He can hear Stan breathing behind him, fast and panicked. He cannot feel his brother’s gaze on him, that is both disconcerting and unexpected.

“Sixer?” His name is hissed low, He feels a tug at his shoulder just as his sight aligns with his target.

“Stanley, what do you—” He whirls around angrily, weapon still in his hands.

There is a bear, standing on its hind legs and mere feet from them. The beast is an impenetrable shade of black and easily 7 feet tall. It is in a state of torpor but hunger is written clear on its face.

“Shouldn’t it be hibernating or something?” Stan voice cracks with fear.

The beast advances, lumbering forward. The noise they must have made from walking on the crunching, new fallen snow must have woken it, their smell may have, all pumping iron-blood and pliant, musky flesh. Its fur hangs loosely from its body; surviving through the previous summer must have taken its toll, the natural time to gorge and grow fat for winter disrupted by the apocalypse. Ford quells the spark of panic within him and raises the crossbow. It is but another victim of Bill Cipher. His hands are steady.

He can smell the rankness of the creature, its desperation. He ignores it and closes one eye: concentrating, aiming. It raises its claw and he shoots, a quick twitch of his tendon. The paw falls, the bear collapses. Lifeless, glassy eyes stare at him. The arrow is embedded deep in its skull, its hair is matted and wet. A puddle of pink spreads onto the ice from its fallen body.

His fingers twinge slightly, he had wanted to make sure the shot was perfect. It was.

Stan is looking at him like he has hung the stars. He supposes, to Stan, he has done exactly that.

 

* * *

 

The bear is heavy but both of them are still strong. Though Stan’s back will hurt tomorrow, this is inevitable.

The trek back is longer. The shadows have molded and stretched until everything is bisected by dark streaks. The sun dips beneath the horizon, drowning itself between the valley of two hulking mountains, leaving a splatter of angry red in its wake. It is stunning.

The Mystery Shack is a welcome site, they are getting tired and Ford can no longer feel his fingertips. They leave the carcass on the veranda; they will skin and gut it later. Its wound no longer leaks blood, the pressure in its arteries gone. Its heart is cold and dead.

Once inside his room Ford removes his gloves, his fingers are tinged blue. How unfortunate. He clenches and unclenches them, trying to reduce the numbness with little success.

“Ford, you okay?” Stan is hovering outside the doorway, afraid to come in. He is flushed with exertion and jittery with adrenaline. Ford has always prided himself on his ability to see opportunity where others see nothing. Perhaps this excursion was not in vain after all.

“I’m fine, Stan.” He raises his hands, pressing them to his cold-reddened face. The movement serves no other purpose than to draw Stan’s attention and it is successful. His brother starts forward. His smaller hands circle Ford’s wrist and draw them forward into the light.

“Shit, you have frost bite.” Unthinking, Stan cups his hands beneath Ford’s and bends his face forward. He exhales blood-hot breath onto his fingers. Ford can feel the ghost of its touch despite the numbness. Stan lifts his head. There are snowflakes clinging to strands of his grey hair. Stan’s fingers are shaking. “We could have died, Ford.” His voice is shaking too.

“It’s alright, Lee.” He murmurs, soft with affection.

He does not seem to have heard Ford. “I’ve only just got you back and if it wasn’t for your crossbow or your—your calmness, your _control_ —” Stan cuts himself off, overwhelmed. His fingers are reverent, stroking tendons, the sinews of his hand. They press into the crevasse of his knuckles, rub against each joint. His index finger presses into the fragile skin of Ford’s middle finger, which on another person would be their ring finger, and feels the throb of his veins. His hand is raised up higher, near his brother's lips. 

Ford understands. Stan has always found his polydactylism fascinating. They held hands often, marked their territory with paint stained palm prints. It was the one startling difference between them and his brother had played with his fingers when they were children, late into night. The spell must have caused that naïve and sweet interest to blossom into something more intense. Ford finds this gratifying. He enjoys being admired over things others deem as faults.

“Stan.” His voice is fathoms deep. His brother is palpitating the tips of the first two fingers of his right hand where the strain of pulling the crossbow’s trigger have left a painful impression. Stan’s palms are warm.

“You’re hurt, Ford.” He’s massaging the delicate jut of bone at Ford’s wrist now, thumb rubbing slow circles.

Stan’s hands are skillful and insistent, soothing the tension out of him. The pleasure travels slow as syrup into the pit of his stomach, pooling there. “Thank you.”  Ford sighs.

Stan takes one considering look at him, and then closes his eyes and takes Ford’s finger into his mouth, it is shamelessly hot and wet inside. Ford groans at the sensation, pressing in another, stroking his brother’s tongue.

“Is this what you wanted, Stanley?” An echo back to their first conversation.

Stan sucks his fingers further into his mouth in answer. Teeth scraping against Ford slightly, sensitizing his skin. Ford cards his fingers through his brother’s hair and then grips it, using it as a hold. He pushes Stan onto the bed so that he’s sitting in front of him.

He removes his hand, they are soaked with saliva, it is a licentiously delicious sensation, and cradles Stan’s face. "Do you want me inside you, little brother? Do you want to come while I fuck you with my fingers?”

He feels Stan nod. “I want to hear you say it.” He says, commanding. “I want you to ask me for what you want.” His fingers are still steady, crooked beneath his brother’s chin.

“Y-Yeah, Ford. I want you to—to finger me.” Stan sounds wrecked. Ford can feel the cartilage his throat beneath his hands, skin rough and unshaven. He strokes the muscle extending down from his jaw with the outside of two bent fingers, a caress. He can see the outline of his brother’s erection, pushing against the zipper of his pants, suggestive and filthy. 

“Strip and then get on your knees and hold the headboard.”

Stan’s eyes are wide and bright. He moves forward and burrows his face into Ford’s stomach, his forehead drags downward until it presses against the top of the metal buckle of his belt. He is unable to look up at him. Ford watches him as he raises his hands to his chest and slowly flicks open each button, his arms are trembling. When the garment hangs loose around him, he stretches his neck and his gaze focuses a little bit above Ford’s own, on the space immediately above his head. He shrugs the shirt off. It falls unceremoniously to the floor, crumpled and pure white, sea foam on sand.

His coarse chest hair disappears into his undershirt and Ford is struck with the sudden urge to see his heart, watch it beating it in the space between his lungs. Contracting. Filling. Contracting. Filling. His cock begins to harden. Stan peels it off with thinly veiled trepidation. He still does not make eye contact.

Stan’s hands quiver terribly fast when he reaches his own belt. A caught bird, fluttering in its cage: desperate to leave but unable to survive on its own. Ford reaches down and carefully removes the leather tongue from the loop securing it, he pulls at it slightly so that the metal prong dislodges itself and then delicately threads it through the buckle. The leather is butter soft in his hands and his finger brush against the heated skin of Stan’s belly. He pulls at the undone strip until it is free from Stan’s pants. He weighs it in his hands, relishing in Stan’s nervousness, before dropping it.

He bends down again, opens the button of Stan’s pants and pulls down the zipper. The boxer-clad head of his cock protrudes out obscenely. He hooks his fingers beneath the material, thumb pressing into Stan’s hipbone, and pushes down both his pants and underwear. Stan raises himself slightly, supported by his thick arms, so that Ford can finish undressing him. He is bare and helplessly hard. An exquisite piece of art just for him.

Ford stands as Stanley shuffles back, onto the center of the bed and gets onto his knees. The indelicate slope of his ass as he holds the headboard in a tight grip is perhaps the most wonderful thing he has ever seen.

“Where’s the lubricant, Stanley.” He runs a hand up his brother’s back, adding more pressure as he moves from tailbone to where his shoulder blades start. He strokes the raised skin of the burn.

“Pant pocket, the right leg.” Stan sounds overcome, slurring and scared.

“You were waiting for this, weren’t you? Is that why you came with me?” He kneads Stan’s ass before kneeling and finding the small tube. He squeezes some of it onto his hands, warming it. The squelch is obscene. He moves until he is directly behind Stanley and presses the tip of one drenched finger against Stan’s perineum. It trembles against him. He adds a little pressure and then stops.

Stan _whines_. His head dipped low and white, faceless but open and so vulnerable.

“I’m not going to go any farther until you answer.”

“ _Fuck_ , Ford. I’ve wanted your fingers inside since — _ahh_ — forever.” He pushes in one knuckle deep and Stan’s body clenches around him, begging for more. “Ford, what do you _want_?”

“An answer, Stanley. A real one.”

“D-do you like torturing me?” He tries to push himself on Ford’s finger but Ford holds his hips tight enough to bruise. Stan can’t move. “I like your hands, Ford. A—And when I saw the way you — _oh_ — took that machine apart, it made me think of – think of the way your fingers just dipped in and out, twisting the wires and they’re so fucking sure and _steady_ —”

One full finger. “Tell me more, Stan.” He curls it up, rubbing against Stan’s prostate with scientific precision. Stan cries out.

“ _Fine_. You win. I’ve been carrying this round since I went down into your lab. I wanted you to—to fuck me, over your desk.”

Another finger slides inside Stan just as he’s inhaling and his brother gasps, _chokes_. He is sinfully snug around him and Stan’s cock is dripping pre-come, even though he hasn’t even touched him there. Ford spreads two fingers, watching the red, sweat-damp hole stretch erotically around the width of his fingers. He is _too_ tight. He stops rubbing Stan’s prostate. Stan spreads his legs farther apart, breathless and wanting.

“You’ve never done this before.” If it is a question, the answer is in the heat around his fingers.

Words claw themselves out of Stan’s throat, need overtaking pride. “Not with anyone else. Never. Never. Never—” A tidal wave, a dam breaking. Something has shattered inside him that can no longer be fixed.

Ford’s other hand is around Stan’s cock, he pumps once, twice. Pre-come slicks his way. He loosens his hold.

“Good answer, Stanley.” Satisfaction coils deep in his gut, dissolving into arousal.

“Want your hand inside me. I want it all. Please, Sixer.” Ford feels winded.

“You are quite the slut, aren’t you? You want to be split open? You want it to hurt?” He hadn’t expected this to be so easy. He presses a third finger in and squeezes more lube against Stan’s hole. It shines softly in the light, so pink, puffy and pliant and and stretched wider than it ever has been, around _him_.

“Yes. Yes. Oh god, yes.” Stan’s is arching up, spine a perfect bow.  He is silvered with shiny layer of sweat and it gathers in the dip of his back. Ford licks it off, slurping and sucking at his tailbone, leaving a mark. “Please, another. God. I _need_ it. Fuck-”

Ford pushes a fourth finger inside Stanley and he can feel his body seize around him, pulling him out and pushing him in. Stan is burning from the inside, there’s fire in his blood: hot and sparking. He doesn’t know if Stan’s impatient for more or already overfilled. He doesn’t think Stan knows either. It is heady feeling.

“Is this why you blushed like a virgin when you saw me drawing, saw me holding a knife in my hands. You’re depraved, Lee. You were so hard on the way home today. I know you were. You like my hands, little brother, you like what they can do and you can’t bear that thought.” If he sounds half-mad, it is because he is.

He thrusts into Stan viciously, a brutal push of his fingers. He’s undulating them inside him. Stan is crying out, half from pain, and half from razor-sharp pleasure. He’s pressed his face against his arm, trying to muffle himself, his inarticulate and sublime noises, by biting into his own flesh. Only Ford can leave a mark on him.

“I’m going to put one more finger inside you and then I’m going to stop moving. You’re going to take it and you’re going to rut on my hand like a bitch in heat and you’ll come like that, Stanley. You’re going to come with my hand inside you, only able scream my name.”

His fingers are wet with sweat, slippery with lubricant and they’re inside of Stanley. The last finger is difficult to push in but he manages. And this is beautiful. There is nowhere Stan can hide. There is nothing left. His thumb presses against the fragile, capillary-threaded skin near Stan’s balls and he can feel the stretch from the outside.

Stan moves, a slow roll of his entire body before he leverages himself against the headboard and jerks back with a bed-jarring strength. The noises he is making are barely human, his sentience is lost to primal passion and lust. It is quick, fast and hard and wonderfully dirty. Ford watches his fingers disappear into the tight sheathe of Stan’s hole; they are wrinkled from moisture, cramping from the tightness they are forced in and out of.

Stan is jacking himself off, his grip looks painfully tight but he’s throwing back his head and he looks lost, subsumed by sensation. Reduced and elevated at the same time. Ford is touching himself too, matching each stroke of Stan's hand. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this before. What has Stan done to him?

Stan collapses onto the bed, he’s screaming something that could be vaguely construed as Ford’s name. His brother is growing tighter and tighter, silky smooth and dripping. A final twist of his hand and Ford can feel him coming, feel the tight press of his walls and it is endless.

He’s no longer trembling.

Yes. God, yes.

Completion.

_Finally._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh this is unedited and I am dead tired. Please leave a comment or hmu on my tumblr which is:  
> https://wubblez-bubblez.tumblr.com/


	3. Impasto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Impasto is a technique where paint is laid on an area of the surface very thickly, usually thick enough that the brush or painting-knife strokes are visible. When dry, impasto provides texture; the paint appears to be coming out of the canvas which gives the painting an almost three-dimensional appearance. It was favoured by Impressionists for its expressive qualities.

When Ford wakes up the next morning, Stan is not next to him. He leans over the side of the bed and checks the floor. His brother’s clothes are still strewn across the thick carpet but Ford’s slippers are missing. He looks for his coat and finds that it, too, is gone. Barefoot and shivering, he walks out of the room, and down the staircase. A cold draught passes through the Shack, causing the curtains to flutter — the door is ajar and Ford sees a dark shape silhouetted in the sliver of light, he opens it fully.

Stan is facing away from him, staring out into the treeline; his bare ankles poke out of his tan coat, pale and thin. The material is tight across his broad shoulders and thick arms. The fabric shifts in the wind, cupping the curve of his calves.

“Aren’t you cold?” Stan makes no move at the sound of his voice, as though he has been expecting him.

Ford moves next to him and his brother glances at him briefly. “I could ask you the same thing. I _am_ wearing your coat.” He raises his arms and shrugs, causing the material to part, underneath he is dressed in only his boxers.

“I’m fine.” Ford says and he means it, the sight of Stan ensconced in his clothes warms him.

“The snow’s been cleared away.” He points to the grey strip of road that is bounded by high walls of white. “I think we can go into town and pick up some stuff. I don’t really want to eat a frickin’ frozen bear if I have to.” He attempts a smile.

Ford tilts his head, considering. Stan does have a point, but the thought of leaving the Shack annoys him. He prefers the solitude it offers, enjoys the way Stan must rely on him for all forms of human contact. He doesn’t wish to share that privilege with anyone.

Stan is still looking at him, eyes hopeful. The red imprint of Ford’s teeth are visible just beneath the collar of the coat. It is a teasing thing, begging Ford to bend forward and mar the softness of Stan’s throat.

“Ford, c’mon. We can’t stay here forever.” Stan knits their fingers together, squeezing slightly. “Please?”

Ford relents and nods his head. He understands that he’s being manipulated but it is still effective; he doesn’t mind it that much. “We’ll go now, if you want?”

Stan brightens visibly and lets go of his hand. He turns to go back inside, door creaking closed behind him. Ford hears the soft sounds of footfalls grow fainter and fainter.  He doesn’t regret agreeing to this, after all, no one should approach Stanley when he is there with him; people are often discomfited by his presence — apparently he can be a bit too _intense_.

 

* * *

 

 

Stan winces a little as he sits down. He’s squirming slightly in the driver’s seat, trying to find a position he is comfortable in. Ford feels satisfaction fill him, the events of last night linger on Stan’s body and will remain there for a long time.

The car shudders as Stan turns the key. Engine flickering on and off. Stan is growing more and more frustrated and he smashes a fist against the dashboard. When he turns the key again there is no response. “Had you for 40 years and now you’re giving me trouble. That’s just my luck—”

“Stan, I’ll handle it.”

Stan gapes at him. “Do you even know how?”

“I created an inter-dimensional portal, I’m sure this will pose no issue.” His palm grazes Stan’s freshly-shaven cheek. “Relax, I’ll be done soon.”

The rush of cold wind that hits him is bracing, at least the interior of the car offered some semblance of protection from the elements.  The hood gleams, he pops it open. A thin film of frost covers it, melting against the heat of his fingertips. He remembers being a boy, watching with wide eyes as Stan brought home the El Diablo for the first time. He remembers the drives they took out to the water front, how the headlights of cars would illuminate Stanley’s skin and highlight his features, he remembers how much he wanted to slide close to his brother and kiss him. His patience has been rewarded.

The car is meticulously well kept. One of the few things that Stan still has from Glass Shard Beach. He runs his fingers over the smooth metal, looking for a ridge. He finds it and presses the pad of his thumb against it. It beeps, recognising his fingerprint, one of the few things about his body that are innately different from Stan’s. The small device falls away from the engine and lands in the cradle of his palm, it is paper thin and lines – circuit traces – are barely visible on its translucent surface. There is no need for it anymore. Stan will not run away. He crushes it.

Ford pushes down the hood, tapping at it to get Stan’s attention. His brother rolls down the window.

“You finished?”

“It’s all fixed up, Stanley. Try it now.”

Stan obeys and turns the key. The engine roars to life. “That was quick.” He sounds impressed.

Ford sits back inside the car, Stan fiddles with knobs on the dashboard and the air conditioner blows dry, heated air at him. Stan has always been thoughtful to a fault. “Thank you.” He sighs, relishing in the warmth.

“I should be saying that, Sixer. This hunk of junk wouldn’t have started if it weren’t for you. What was the problem anyway?”

“Mm… It was nothing really. Just the cold.”

Ford settles into the seat, watching Stan’s face crease in concentration as he reverses onto the road. He drives slowly, carefully. The complete opposite of how he used to back when they were young and reckless. This is a recent change, Ford can tell. The ice slicks the road, causing each turn to slip more than it should. Stan’s fingers hold the steering wheel tightly. He is still wearing Ford’s coat.

The town is not far from the Mystery Shack, but the drive seems to stretch. The view is unchanging. Tall trees dusted in snow as far as the eyes can see. Stan talks, sharing small anecdotes, trying to piece together the frayed tapestry of his memory.

Ford is just beginning to sweat when the first buildings become visible through the tree-line, the windows are covered with a layer of condensation, everything outside looks fogged over and indistinct. Gravity Falls has always been small, uniquely remote. It is nestled in the clearing of an endless forest, mountains rising high above it. From his window it looks like a place from a dream, shop fronts are vague smudges of colour and light, people are smears on the glass, obscured and melting.

Stan parks in front of the only store in town that has not banned him, at least that is what he tells Ford. He pushes the door with a jerk, it sticks but opens. Ford does not move, unwilling to join the press of crowds, become part of it. “Let’s go, Ford.” Stan is impatient.

“Do you have a list of everything we’ll need?”

Stan has the decency to appear sheepish. “I pick up stuff as I see it. It’s not organised, but I get most of what I need.”

Ford gives him a disapproving look, before steeling himself and opening the door. His breath wisps out in front of him. The lot is empty, for the most part. It is still early morning and obviously many people are still at home, sleeping in their beds or dead-eyed at work. He wonders what day it is.

There is graffiti on the sides of the building, barely legible phrases and childish drawings. A bored teenager greets them once they enter, she seems remarkably similar to the red-headed girl Stan employs. The both have the same bored expression, dark circles under their eyes, magazine in their hands. It is an effortless indifference.

The shelves are high and filled with more brands than he remembers there being 30 years ago. The lights are fluorescent and cold, a camera whirrs in the corner, watching them. Soft but unfamiliar music plays in the background, a peaceful white noise to cover the silence. He hasn’t ever accompanied Stan here before. It has been a long time since he has gone shopping. It has been a long time since he has been in this dimension.

Stan is carrying a plastic basket, smirking. His shoulder bumps against Ford. “Get whatever you want, not like we’re gonna be paying for half of it. These people never learn.” He walks off, there is a slight yet gratifying limp in his walk, an unmistakeable stiffness.

The few people that are there seem to recognise Stanley, smiling as he walks past. Ford does not like this at all but Stan barely pays them any attention beyond a cursory nod and easy grin. He decides to explore the store on his own and categorise the sheer number of changes that have occurred in this world while he was gone.

It is fascinating. Cellular phones have grown unimaginably small and ubiquitous, so many people are hunched over, lost in their own world with their thumbs darting across screens – screens that can register _touch_. The thought excites him. He considers buying one. Dipper and Mabel have introduced him to the internet but he hasn’t taken the time to fully explore it. Perhaps he should now, his work with Stan is done. He can finally focus his attention on different things and there is _so_ much to do.

He’s roaming through the aisles, hands trailing against the shelves, when he hears a crash and a pained yelp. The sound is familiar. Stanley. He starts towards the direction of the noise, moving with quiet and startling swiftness. It does not take long. When he finds Stan, the man is crumpled on the floor; his basket is overturned, cans and miscellanea are strewn around him. His head in his hands, thumbs kneading at his temples. A store clerk hovers nearby awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Ford kneels down beside him.

“Thank god you’re here, Sixer.” Stan turns to look at him, he is pale as a sheet. Ford rubs his back gently, large concentric circles.

“Sir, are you alright? Should we call someone—?”

Ford cuts her off. “My brother is fine.” He says firmly, before softening his gaze and attempting a comforting smile. “We’re not as young as we used to be and the winter hasn’t been kind. There’s nothing to be worried about, everything is perfectly alright.”

She remains unconvinced. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to—”

“Don’t worry, this happens sometimes.” He helps Stan get up, his brother looks slightly pained but the sickly glow of his skin has disappeared. “As you can see, he’s a lot better now.”

Mollified, she nods and walks away. Her minimum wage salary does not compel her to care more.

“Ford.” Stan’s voice is weak. “Can we go to the bathroom? I don’t feel too great.”

No one really notices them, their age lending them anonymity. Stan is heavy against him, a dead weight, but they both manage to make it inside the dingy bathroom. It reeks of refuse and antiseptic causing Ford to wrinkle his nose. A single unshaded light bulb hangs from the ceiling, swinging to and fro. Ford locks the door behind them.

Stan braces himself against the bowl of the toilet and retches, deep heaves from his diaphragm. Nothing escape his mouth except bile and saliva. He slumps to the floor, exhausted. Ford is next to him, making soothing noises, smoothing back his hair.

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Y-Yeah. Guess I’m just tired, haven’t had breakfast or anything.”

“We’ll get something to eat after I’m done buying everything.” Ford pulls him up and Stan presses against him in a hug.

“Thanks, Sixer. Always feel better around you.” They stay like that for a while, until they hear a rattle of someone trying to turn the handle.

“One second—” Stan yells, and rinses his hands and mouth in the sink, splashing water against his face. He opens the door and both of the brother’s exit, the man outside barely paying them any heed as he enters.

Ford walks slowly, he has a fairly accurate layout of the store in his mind and he plots out the most efficient route to get all of the necessities. Stan stays close to him, their shoulders brushing as they move. Ford has a firm grip on his brother’s elbow, an assurance of support and strength.

Thankfully, it is not take long until they are back outside, loading things into the trunk of the car. Stan had protested at Ford actually _paying_ for everything in the cart but had eventually quietened, unable to continue the discussion while the cashier was within earshot.

“You could’ve let me take _one_ thing.” He complains.

Ford ignores him, Stan’s arms had shaken slightly as he picked up their groceries. He’s weak with pain and exhaustion. “Do you want me to drive, Stanley?”

“You can drive?” Disbelief colours his words.

“Of course I can.”

Stan does not look up as he tosses the keys at him, the tinkle faintly as they arc through the air. Ford catches them. “Isn’t this just a week of surprises? You can fix a car, cook _and_ drive. What else are you hiding, Sixer?”

When Ford smiles, it shows his teeth. “Not much, Lee.”

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t have to adjust the seat, his legs are the same length as Stan’s; the back of his skull is cradled comfortably against the headrest, like it’s been molded to fit him. This is probably the first time Stan has let anyone besides himself drive the El Diablo. He must still feel sick.

 “Do you know where Greasy’s is?” Stan asks.

“ _Greasy’s?_ ” Ford rolls the name on his tongue, he has a vague inkling of the place. Maybe he went there once?

“It was around while you here.” Stan huffs out a soft laugh. “I figured you wouldn’t know it, not your kinda place.”

“Can you tell me the way there?” Ford does not want to burden Stan when he is in this state more than he needs to, but he’s got absolutely no idea where to go.

“Off Main Street, two rights and a left. It looks like an old train car, you can’t miss it.” Stan closes his eyes, and curls up against Ford’s side. His hands shift, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt.

“Tired?”

Stan hums in response, draping the coat over himself like a make-shift blanket.

Ford does not drive as smoothly as his brother, he presses the brakes a little too hard, and he swerves uncomfortably close to other cars but he tries. Stan’s breath is even, and warm against his arm.

“We’re close.”

“Mm… I know.” He nuzzles his face against Ford and inhales deeply. “Why do I feel so much better near you?” This is a question Ford cannot answer, not yet anyway. He doubts Stan wants to know the real reason.

He parks the car jerkily, and Stan shifts away from him, stretching out his arms. His hair is mussed, curling upwards charmingly, and making him look decades younger. Ford reaches over and pats it down.

“Nice nap?”

“Didn’t sleep, actually.” He cracks his neck. “This headache wasn’t as bad as the first couple of ones. Whatever you did must’ve worked a bit.”

“I think so too. Maybe we should try it again?” Ford wants him to say yes.

“Nah, Sixer. This seems like a one off, hasn’t been a problem since then really.” His hand rests on the door-handle. “I’m starving and I know you are too; we both haven’t eaten for at least a day.”

 

* * *

 

 

The diner is cozy, young families tucked into booths, long-distance truckers slump onto the counter, sipping strong coffee and watching television. Stan pulls him to a corner table near the back. The faux-leather of the sofa is bright red and spotted with years’ worth of questionable stains. It is pleasant nonetheless, the air sweet with the scent of baked goods and warmth.

A woman walks over; she’s about their age with bright blue eye shadow and garish pink lips, one of her eyelids is closed in a perpetual wink. She recognizes them but Ford can’t seem to place her. He checks her nametag — Susan.

“What’ll it be, Stan-ley.” She giggles at the rhyme. Ford hates her with a sudden passion. She then turns to him, still smiling. “And you must be the real Stanford.”

Ford inclines his head, barely acknowledging her attempt at conversation. He wants her gone.

She doesn’t seem fazed, looking back at his brother. “Haven’t seen you around here for a while. Too busy doing mysterious stuff off in the wood?”

Stan doesn’t seem to mind, preening under the attention. “Oh, you know. I’m doing this and that. Trying to figure everything out, killing monsters. The usual stuff.” There is a certain smoothness in his tone — an oily glaze of charisma.

She giggles again, the sound grates at his ears, and curls a lock of hair around her finger. “Well, you still shouldn’t have forgotten us like that.”

She’s flirting with Stan. _His_ Stan. And Stan seems happy about it, running his hand through his hair like he is 16 and not 60. Ford’s holding the table, knuckles white.

“We’ll both get some pancakes.” He interrupts. He can’t bear this anymore.

She startles at the sound of his voice before jotting their order down. “Oh, I’ll get it for you right away. Don’t think about paying a dime, Stan Pines. Everything’s on the house for the town hero — and his brother.” The last part of the sentence is tacked on, like Ford is an afterthought.

“Wasn’t planning on paying anyway, Susan.” Stan calls back at her retreating form. He turns to Ford, face serious. “What was that about, Sixer?”

“What do you mean?” Ford tries to go for innocence but the lingering anger in his voice betrays him.

“You look about ready to kill someone.”

“I don’t respond favourably to strangers, especially not ones that get as… familiar as that woman just did.” Ford picks up one of the salt shakers, rolling it back and forth in his palm, trying to calm himself.

Stan doesn’t desist from his line of questioning. “Cut the crap, Ford. And her name’s Susan.”

“What do you want me to say, Stan? That I enjoyed the fact that she was blatantly trying to get you to fu—”

“Shut up.” It is said with such force that Ford complies. Stan leans back, appraising him and then he laughs from deep in his belly. “Never pegged you for the insecure type.”

“I think a better word would be jealous.” Ford says, affronted.

“Jealousy, insecurity, two sides of the same coin.” There is still amusement in his tone. Ford doesn’t like being mocked.

“Am I wrong to be? You two seem to share some romantic history.”

Stan fidgets, blushing softly. “Relax, will you? My head’s kinda fuzzy, but trust me, I don’t want to revisit that memory again.”

Ford is seeing red. “So you were involved—”

“If you count one date where I bolted after screaming ‘non-specific excuse,’ then yes, we had a torrid love affair.”

“I still don’t like it.”

Stan reaches over, taking the salt shaker from his hand. “You don’t have to.” He quiets, watching the white grains gather at one side as he tilts the container. “You never acted like this with Carla.”

“I was younger, and far more confused. If you recall, I used to leave every time she came over.” Ford was different then, anxious and frightened and weak. He thinks he hated her, but it was an impotent and futile feeling, more envy than anger. The portal had changed him, or maybe Bill had; hardened out his edges and sharpened them to a point. “Even so, we weren’t together then either.” He says this delicately, not wanting to disturb the dark and tenuous thing between them.

Stan slouches lower in his seat. “I think I loved Carla, but that doesn’t make any sense because I’ve always loved you.” Ford slides his hand across the table and rests it atop Stan’s. A spark slips from his fingertips and absorbs into Stan’s skin, red and fleeting. It is a little reminder, a small nudge in the right direction. “I wish I knew what the fuck was happening.” Stan sounds drained, turning his hand over so that he can grip Ford’s fingers, squeezing them together for a moment.

“Food’s here!” Susan calls, carrying a tray that is piled high with far more than two plates of pancakes. Stan’s hand darts away, slipping beneath the table. She places the steaming food in front of them, beaming. “Enjoy.”

Ford thinks that she leans too close to Stanley, that she bends over too far but his brother’s concentration is elsewhere, directed on consuming as much as physically possible in one sitting. It is most likely a remnant from the days he couldn’t predict when his next meal would be. The guilt, the _rage_ , makes Ford lose his appetite. He wishes he could take back all those years where Stan lived alone, but then they have made him so dependent on Stanford, he is inextricably intertwined with Stan’s idea of a home.

 

* * *

 

 

The drive back to the Mystery Shack is silent. Ford remembers the way; he could navigate these woods blind-folded if he had to, the knowledge was necessary for his survival. He knew the forest far better than he knew the town. The trees seem more human, more distinct to him than most people do. He feels calmer with each mile put between them and civilisation.

The sun is bright, hanging high in the sky; Ford assumes it is somewhere around noon. The glare reflects of the snow and into his eyes – he has to squint to see. Stan is draped across the front seat, lost in post-binge exhaustion. He looks content, eyes closed, idly listening to the radio. Ford can still hear him heaving in the dank toilet, hear his name on Stan’s lips when he’s helpless, hear him laughing with the waitress. Stan’s always in his head, waiting.

“How are you feeling, Lee?”

His brother doesn’t open his eyes. “Mm…Stuffed but good. Why?”

“Just checking.”

“Is that concern I hear in your tone? You’re spoiling me, Sixer.”

Ford laughs, “Maybe it is. I like taking care you.” He looks at Stan through the rear-view mirror, he is blushing, more from arousal than embarrassment. He is warm, safe and loved all because of him. He doesn’t need anyone else.

Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a bunch of fic ideas and I'm looking for someone to bounce them off of, so if you're interested hmu at: https://wubblez-bubblez.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> Also, maybe I haven't explained but dark!ford is the way he is because Bill constantly possessed him. I always figured that there would be long lasting damage from sharing literal head-space with a demon. It adds a layer of irony too, Ford's been manipulated and he's doing the same to Stanley.


	4. Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nocturne painting is a painting style that depicts scenes evocative of the night or subjects as they appear in a veil of light, in twilight, or in the absence of direct light. It is characterized by soft, diffused light, muted tones and hazy outlined objects, all of which imbue the works with a strong sense of mood.

During winter, daylight fades quickly into darkness. Ford doesn’t mind this, he has always preferred the night, found comfort in the consuming blackness. He has often spent nights in Gravity Falls out in the forest, navigating by the faint pinprick points of stars. But this is not one of those nights. Ford is drained, human interaction has always taxed him. His calves ache from keeping his foot stiff and firm on the aged accelerator. His mouth aches from keeping an insipid smile on his face. His hands still ache from gripping the steering wheel, from being pressed tight inside Stanley, from gutting the carcass of a bear. He wants to float far, far away, curled up around his brother beneath a heavy blanket.

“Stan, are you coming upstairs?”

Stan doesn’t respond, doesn’t seem like he’s even aware someone is talking to him. The light from the television reflects off his irises, his face is drawn tight in a frown. He looks distant, consumed by some fantasy.

“Stan?” He says it louder this time.

Still nothing. Not even the faintest shudder of acknowledgement. His brother is adrift in his own mind.

Ford squints and he can’t see the red dot on Stan’s hearing-aids. His brother really can’t hear him. That means he’s not actually watching the TV, he just wants Ford to think he is. This piques Ford’s curiosity.

Ford goes to bed alone. When he dreams it is of his hands molding wet clay — an eternally spinning wheel and the malleable softness of it warping beneath his fingers.

 

* * *

 

 

Near midnight, Ford hears a creak outside his bedroom. The sound stops abruptly for a second, leaving the world blank and still, the contrast pulls him from his slumber. He hears the muffled shift of slippers sliding against wood, the low hiss of air entering and leaving lungs in a choked breath. The noise pauses, grows quiet again: hesitant and afraid.

Stan is either trying not to disturb Ford out of a sense of kindness or, more possibly, he doesn’t want Ford to wake up and find him.

Ford waits for Stan to pass, feigning sleep even though he doesn’t need to. He keeps still and slack until he hears the heavy rumble of the elevator working far beneath the house. Stan is going to his study, a place he has shown no interest in except when Ford is there. This is unusual.

Ford gathers his coat, certain he will not be heard, and makes his way down the stairs and out of the Mystery Shack. The stars glitter in the sky like jewels, bright like new-fallen snow. The trees are tenebrous shapes that shift and shake in the distance. The moon watches, half-lit and half-shadowed, pock-marked and silent. It is a beautiful night.

He makes his way to the back of the house, feet sinking into the snow. He knows the ground beneath it will be hard and cold with frost but that doesn’t matter because Ford is a man of science. He stops near the veranda and his gun rests heavy on his hip, its body warm with the energy locked inside it. He does not go anywhere without it, he hasn’t for a very long time. He unholsters it, admiring the quality of the craftsmanship, the gleam of the metal and presses the trigger. A heated blast of red light bursts out of the tip and the snow vaporises, cloudy billows of steam rise up and crystallise almost immediately.

The earth is soft and crumbling. Faint shafts of light are visible through the mud, strands of yellow against brown. Rays of light break out onto the surface, coalescing and growing brighter as he kicks at the ground with his boot, knee shaking from the strength of each strike. He is careful to put his weight on the other leg lest he fall in. He has never told Stan that there is an alternate entrance to the basement, one that Dipper had almost chanced upon. The foundations around it are weak, held up only by the gravity distorter Ford uses. It takes a minute to create a hole that is large enough to see the faint figure of Stan through it.

His brother is behind a pane of glass, and it makes his skin look like it has an unnatural glaze — a sheen of reflective white that is obscured with dust in places. His back is bent over and he’s pulling books out at random. Piles of Ford’s notes and writings cover the floor but there is an order to the madness. The towering heaps of copy paper and ancient parchment are adjacent to the desk they were taken out of, so that Stan will remember where to put everything back when he's done. So that Ford will never know.

He is foolish man for thinking that Ford won’t notice.

Wiping sweat away from his brow Stan moves to another desk, trying to take it apart. He studiously avoids the one which bears the same sigil that was on the side of the control panel when they fought so long ago, the same sigil that is now engraved into his shoulder. The carved mark does not glow, but the black, gaping emptiness of it must bother Stan. A yawning space that could be filled with raised skin of his scar.

Stan straightens out but his shoulders are slumped and he looks defeated, lost in the sea of Ford’s knowledge, drowning in all that he does not know but wishes to.

He has seen enough. Ford moves to the side of the hole and bends down, hand pushed into the earth. He, too, is searching. His fingers scrape against something hard and metallic. It is the door. He scrubs the loose soil away from it until its circumference is visible. He lifts it; it is heavy and his back protests with age and exhaustion but he manages. With one final pull it is horizontal and the momentum pulls the slab flat onto the ground, lying against on the dirty snow, dark grey against pale grey, never truly white. He turns to the entrance and the light from inside is harsh, almost blinding. He has to take a moment to adjust to it.

He descends down the ladder, which is hidden on the far wall. His body is fluid with muscle-memory. The rungs are iron hard and painfully cold in his grip but he is still far quieter than his brother, his time in the multiverse has made moving silently second nature. There were so many monstrous creatures he has crept past or killed, and half-deaf Stan, whose back was to him, who has rheumy eyes and creaking limbs, has no chance.

He stands just out of Stan’s eye-line, hands behind his back, like he has been watching him from the very start, a silent statue, hewn from the hardest stone.

“Stan, what are you doing?” His brother starts in surprise, flinching so hard the book falls from his hand with a jarringly loud thud.

“N-Nothing, Sixer.” He’s faltering, stuttering over his words like guilty child. His eyes are bloodshot, he hasn’t been sleeping well.

“I know when you’re lying.” This is true, the only person Stan could never deceive was him. Even their mother, with all her experience with falsehood, could never recognize Stan’s lies. But Ford was always different, it was how he knew Stan had not made a mistake that night before the Science Fair, that he had wanted to ruin Ford’s life.

“Ford, seriously. It’s nothing. I was just curious—”

“At 1 a.m. in the morning?”

“I swear — I was looking around—”

“In my lab, while I’m sleeping?”

Stan pauses, trying to compose himself. “Y-Yeah.”

“What were you looking for, Stanley?”

“Christ, okay. I-I wanted to check on the portal. Nightmares, you know? Didn’t wanna bother you with something so small.” Stan smiles, triumphant. A plausible alternative for why he’s really here.

“Stan, the _truth_.” His voice is loud and reverberates across the room. It echoes back, loosing clarity and meaning until it’s a hum in the air.

Stan hesitates, wringing his hands. His eyes flit back between the floor and his brother, gathering courage. He takes a deep breath. “Ford, I need to know why it hurts so much when you’re not there. I need to know what you’ve _done_.”

This is unexpected, and yet, in some ways, it was entirely inevitable. Ford has hoped that Stan would be less suspicious, but perhaps his brother had also changed in the time he was gone. Maybe 40 years of rough living and lies made him acutely aware of the people around him, of _himself_. But Stan only has half-formed doubts in his mind, dunes of memories that shift when he looks away from them, and each day when he wakes, he has to contend with another landscape, another unfamiliar place.

“Ford, what have you put inside my head?” There are bright spots of colour on his cheeks, eyes wide and desperate. Stan _needs_ this knowledge, needs it to maintain the last vestiges of his sanity.

Ford considers telling him. He really does, but the thought slips through his mind like a silverfish, an enticing flash of colour that disappears back into the darkness as fast it came. An impulse that is ruthlessly suppressed by logic. _Oh, how he wants to—_

But it will break Stanley.

Instead he leans forward and kisses him. Stan freezes for a moment, then falls into it, collapsing against Ford like he can’t bear to support himself. His arms wrap around Ford’s shoulders holding him close, pulling Ford to him as though he wants to become a part of him, absorb him into his skin and blood and bones.

It’s _wonderful_.

One of Stan’s hands is in his hair, tangled up in the thick, dark grey strands, preventing Ford from even drawing away for air. Stan doesn’t want him physically able to talk and answer. He wants to stay suspended in this moment, in this half-second before a fall from a high, high place when the ground is but a distant and frightening dream. Stan wants to sink himself down in sensation and static to silence the ache in his soul, the ever-present sense that something is terribly, awfully _wrong_ inside of him.

Stan is whimpering against Ford, not bothering to quell the sounds. He is an addict who goes to the drug that will kill them for comfort, willfully and decadently ignorant. He rubs a hand down Stan’s back and slides it beneath his white undershirt, warming the chilled skin against the heat of his palm.

His tongue presses into Ford’s mouth, needy and questing. Ford can feel each of his exhalations, hot and wet against his lips. They are sharing air.

“ _Ford_ —”

Ford realizes what he wants and opens his mouth, rubbing his tongue against Stanley’s. It is liquid softness and body-warm heat. He’s moaning too, and moving closer, following Stan’s voiceless demands. He tilts his hand, trying to get a better angle. Stan’s mouth is so sweet it is overwhelming, and he’s tempted to bite down and break the fragile skin so that his mouth is flooded with iron-salt instead, or maybe Stan’s blood will be as sugar-syrup-sweet as the rest of him. Ford wouldn’t mind either way. It’s all delicious.

He nibbles at Stan’s lips, loving how the blood and flesh mould beneath his teeth, near the point of bursting. Stan squirms against him, hating the pain but wanting his brother close. He withdraws, Stan’s lips are a dark shade of red, and most definitely bruised. The impressions of his incisors are visible, contours and shadows in every lewd shade of pink.

He slips a thigh between Stan’s legs, causing his brother to edge backwards until the insides of his knees hit the desk behind them. Stan’s hands tighten on Ford, his body tense and taut from arousal. He is hard in his boxers, cock twitching against Ford. It’s all pressure with no movement, yet it is still overwhelming. Their lips brush against one another in half-kisses.

Ford reaches down and kneads Stan’s ass, cupping and squeezing the flesh through the thin fabric of his underwear. His thumbs rest against the hollows on both of his brother’s pelvis and he strokes the dip softly. With a burst of strength, he grips Stan’s hips and lifts him onto the desk, forcing him down with his back flat and his chest heaving.

Stan’s legs instinctively wrap around his waist, his feet digging into Ford’s back before his hold loosens. Ford shrugs off his coat, feeling overheated, and takes off his sweater as well. Sweat clings to him, making his skin cold and sticky. He undoes the drawstring of his pants and hears a whine, when he looks up he sees that Stan is staring at his bare chest like he’s seen nothing better in his life and his gaze travels lower, dark with anticipation. Ford lets his pants fall to the floor and steps out of them.

Stan’s dick rests flat on his belly, peaking out of the elastic of his boxers. Ford grasps his brother’s knees and forces them farther apart. Stan’s legs are spread obscenely, _whorishly_ wide, barely resisting his touch. His lower back is arched up of the desk and this allows Ford to slip his hand beneath the swell of Stan’s ass and pull off his brother’s boxers.

Stan hisses when the rush of cold air makes contact with his sensitive skin, and then again when Ford bends down and rubs their dicks together. He thrusts up, craving more friction and more touch, and Ford obliges, moving his arm beneath his brother’s back and rubbing at his perineum.

“Ah— _Shit!_ ”

“Still hurts from yesterday?”

Stan nods, but hips roll backwards onto Ford’s fingers, wanton and needy. He wants Ford inside him so badly.

“Patience, Stanley.” Ford chuckles low in his chest. His other arm reaches out and opens one of his desk drawers. He fishes around inside until he finds a bottle of industrial lubricant. It should work.

He squeezes it one-handed onto his palm. Stan fidgets at the noise, knees raising until they’re resting on Ford's broad shoulders. It’s more viscous than he’s used to, reminiscent of thick oil rather than water but it should feel gorgeous around his cock when he’s inside Stanley. His dick throbs with pleasure and anticipation.

He goes slowly, pressing one finger inside Stan and allows himself the time to appreciate the wet heat of Stan’s body, how he purposefully relaxes each muscle when Ford strokes into him.

“Ford — _Oh_ _god_ — another. I can take it. C’mon.”

He chokes when Ford slips two fingers in instead. The pressure must be overwhelming. Ford rubs a small circle against Stan’s prostate, watching his body tense like a vice and then relax when he pulls away. It’s like flipping a switch, completing a circuit. Tight and loose, tight and loose, all because of the minute movements of his fingers inside Stan. He feels a rush of power.

He withdraws his hand and Stan whines, his hole shining and wide, waiting to be filled. He slicks his dick, positioning it next to Stan’s perineum. Almost inside but not quite.

“Do you want this, Stan?” He’s breathless and panting, aching to push in but he needs this, needs this final confirmation.

“Yes. Yes. _Please_.” Stan cries out, writhing against Ford with uncoordinated movements. He’s barely coherent.

The fat, pink head of his cock disappears inside Stanley and it is exquisite. He pauses, breathing in and trying to calm himself. His abdomen twitches, his fingers are clenched into tight fists against the wood of the desk.

Stan is moaning. “More, Sixer. Just a little bit more. Need you inside me—”

In one long, endless stroke Ford pushes himself into Stan completely. The tightness is incredible. It almost hurts, but that’s even better because it means he’s the first who has been inside his brother like this, who has touched him like this.

Ford rolls his hips with short, slow thrusts, paying constant attention to Stan’s prostate. His brother is a blissed out with sensation, consumed by the sparks traveling up his spine and radiating through his entire body. A supernova is contained in the lower part of his abdomen and it is growing larger and larger, whiting out everything around them.

Ford wants to kiss him and he bends down, Stan’s ass shifting higher into the air so that when he thrusts in again he goes impossibly deep and Stan whimpers from pleasure. He licks into Stan’s lips, pressing kisses against his jaw and throat when Stan throws his head back, incapable of the coordination required to kiss back, incapable of focusing on anything except the feeling of Ford inside of him, splitting him open with his cock.

He wonders what this would feel like if he had not waited so long and had done this when they were still young men, flushed with youth, vitality and naïve confidence. What would it have been like? Tentative touches beneath the cover of night, long drives around the coast until they found a spot secluded enough to rut against each other. He doubts that Stan would be this open for him, this desperate and willing. Forty years of yearning have made him crave Ford’s touch like it is something more vital and pure than oxygen.

Maybe something broke inside Stan when he was kicked out and he rebuilt himself around the idea of Ford. To his brother he was a symbol of hope, of the future, of forgiveness. How many times must Stan have fantasized about their reunion? Did he ever imagine this? Being fucked on his brother’s desk, crumpled beneath the weight of Ford and his thrusts.

Ford pulls Stan face down, hands gripping in Stan’s hair, tugging him closer. They can now finally kiss properly. Ford is close enough to hear the tiny, breathless noises that escape Stan every time he pushes inside of him. Little _ah, ah, ahs_. The way he sighs when Ford moves slowly and sweetly, the way he’ll cry out when Ford leans close enough that his dick can rub against the line in Ford’s abdomen.

But Ford needs more. He pulls out with an erotic pop and Stan keens against him, confused by the sudden loss of sensation.

“What the fuck, Sixer?” He sounds like a petulant child, full of exaggerated anger and betrayal. He needs the distraction that sex offers him.

“I want you to ride me.” Ford says this quietly, with little inflection but so much purpose.

Stan stills beneath him, his pupils dilating. “Holy fuck.”

Ford stands up straight, reaches out and grabs a chair from another desk. He sits down on it, legs spread wide. Stan is raised up on his elbows, eyes fixed on him. “Sit on my lap.” A command hidden as an invitation.

Stan follows him, half-drugged with lust, legs trembling as he gets down from the desk. He is too strung out to care about his nudity. He straddles Ford’s lap, knees pushed against his brother’s thighs. He looks hesitant.

“Do you know how to do this?” Ford runs a comforting hand down Stan’s back. His brother tenses from his touch. Is it arousal or fear? Ford is fine with either.

Stan laughs, an awkward and rough sound. He’s trying to calm the tension between them. “I think I can figure it out, Ford. It’s not exactly rocket science.”

Ford just mouths Stan’s chest in response, pulling up his brother’s shirt up so he can lick the tightened buds of each nipple.

Stan grips the back of the chair, trying to ground himself and not get lost in the rising tide of lust and heat that Ford’s wet tongue against him brings. He wilts forward in the end, unable to stop himself and their foreheads touch. It is surprisingly intimate.

His hand timidly caresses Ford’s thigh, moving inwards. His thumb strokes the spot where Ford’s legs joins his pelvis. With a loose grip he grabs Ford’s lube-slicked dick. Stan isn’t used to this, being in control, or at least some facsimile of it, but he’s doing so well.

Ford leans back, letting Stan guide him inside. They maintain eye contact as Stan slowly lowers himself onto Ford’s cock. His forehead is lined, brows furrowed with concentration. It feels wonderful.

Ford is so deep inside Stan, It’s sinful. This feeling should be _illegal_.

Stan’s thin thighs shake as he raises himself up again, arms trying to gain leverage by holding Ford’s shoulders. Only the tip of his dick is still inside his brother and then Stan drops down, a jarringly fast movement. Oh _Christ_ —

Ford could never have prepared for that. One second he can barely feel Stan, and in the next his brother encompasses his entire world.

Stan is still squirming around him, trying to find a better angle. Ford shifts a little, brushing against Stan’s prostate for a moment. Stan understands, tilting his hips slightly and then he moans. There it is.

Stan moves with fevered, frenzied strokes. He is possessed by the most carnal and primal parts of himself. His head is thrown back as he uses Ford to get himself off.

“Oh god, Stan. You feel so good.” Ford lays back, enjoying the sweet heat inside of Stanley. “Look at you fucking yourself on your twin brother’s cock.” He raises his hand and rubs at Stan’s flushed cheek, forcing his face down. “Beautiful.” He kisses Stan, wet and loud and desperate.

This is so obscene. The startling, fleshy sound of Stan’s ass against his thighs, the slippery-slick sound of his cock moving in and out of Stanley, the uncontrolled abandon of their moans.  

“No one gets to do this to you, Stan. No one but me.” Ford rubs at Stan’s ass, hands moving to rest on his hips. “This is all mine.” Stan is his forever, no one else’s.

The muscles in Stan’s thighs are trembling and straining, the closer he gets to orgasm, the harder it is to attain. Ford feels a warm swell of pity. He holds Stan down and thrusts into him, and his brother falls against him, sweat-damp and tired.

“Oh _fuck_ , yes. All yours, Ford. Always was. Just need more, please. _Please_.”

Ford gathers Stan close in his arms, holding him tight enough that he’s pliant and still. He’s only rolling his hips but Stan is _begging_ for it. His brother’s prostate is over-stimulated and sensitized to the point where even the faintest graze has him leaking all over Ford’s belly.

Stan is rutting into his stomach, trying to get more friction against his cock. His hands are still clutching Ford’s shoulders, and he can’t touch himself, not properly. But that’s okay because Ford will always take care of him. He reaches between their sweat-soaked bodies and strokes Stan’s cock, feeling it twitch in his hand. His brother is close, he can feel it from the inside, the way he bears down on Ford’s cock is so telling. He counts each pump of his hand. One. Two. Three—

Stan shouts, come spurting all over their chests. The walls of his ass are rhythmically tightening around Ford and when he closes his eyes and sees a white so bright it is — yes, yes, _yes_.

Stan is slumped against him and they are stuck together with sweat and drying come but Ford has never felt better. He pulls out of Stan with a wince and admires the sight of his seed leaking out of Stan’s hole.

“Come on, Stanley. Time to get up.”

His brother nuzzles against his shoulder, a dead weight. He feels a soft rush of post-orgasmic affection and runs a hand through Stan’s hair.

“Lee, please.”

Stan seems to understand that he can’t sleep like this and gets up, yawning loudly and stretching his back. Ford stands up too, his thighs burning with lactic acid and effort. Luckily, there is an old sofa down here and some thick blankets — remnants from the time when he used to live in the basement. He leads Stan to it and they curl up together, so twisted and intertwined it’s hard to tell where Stan begins and Ford ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took longer than expected because life has been punching me in the face
> 
> hmu at: https://wubblez-bubblez.tumblr.com/


	5. Luminism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luminism is an art style distinguished by its smooth, slick finish; cold, clear colours; and meticulously detailed objects, modeled by rays of light. Luminist landscapes emphasize tranquility, and often depict calm, reflective water and a soft, hazy sky.

When he wakes up, he’s lying supine on the ground, grass tickles his exposed skin: the back of his neck, the inside of his hands. He lifts himself up and as he stands, legs shaking and weak, he is hit with a debilitating rush of vertigo. His head is pulsing with pain so strong that his eyes water but he tries to ignore it — he has handled worse.

He dusts off his coat, and looks around. His surroundings are featureless, flat and expansive, grey wheat underneath a grey sky. Ford is in his own mindscape.

It is different from what he remembers, it has changed just as he has. The Stan-o-War is still there, but it is merely beached, not broken. One swing still hangs uselessly, vertical and scraping the sand as it rocks gently in the wind, but it’s lashed together with heavy chains, reminiscent of the ones Bill used to hold him down. The portal is no longer there, instead a sigil is carved into the surface of the sun, glowing a faint, muted red.

He looks down. There is another impression next to him, a rough shape of a body pressed into grass, but nobody is in sight. No one should be. The metal plate makes sure he is safe from these kind of situations. This is impossible. Bill is dead. Bill is dead.

Why is he here?          

Panic rises like bile in his throat but he banishes it. He breathes in and out. He is safe. He is in his own dimension. No one can hurt him.

A gun materializes in his hands, large and heavy, sparking at the tip. The line of his shoulder loosens.

He walks forward, trying to follow the vague trail left behind by the intruder in his mind. Whoever it is had made a grievous mistake. He is the powerful one here.

He follows a winding path, tension spiralling higher as he is always one step behind, an insurmountable mile of difference. Freshly broken grass, recently disturbed dust, small things that are out of place everywhere. Something is here and it is looking. But there is no logic to its search.

Footsteps circled the swing set, deep enough to be discernable and doubled over. They must have walked around it at least thrice, there is no reason to find that twisted and rusted husk fascinating. It represents nothing, there is no heated glow of identity, of importance. It is as dead as the metal it is made of. Ford has long since removed any valuable memories from such an easily accessible landmark.

Most of his knowledge is locked into the roots of the wheat. However, the most important information — how to construct the portal, complex mathematical equations, his weaknesses — is buried deep beneath the ground, the bedrock and foundation of his mind. It is impossible to extract.

The footsteps lead to the Stan-o-War. It contains nothing in it except his brother and is of little significance to anyone besides him and possibly Stan.

It makes no sense. What do they want? What are they looking for?

He jogs towards it, gun cocked and burning with power. He’s ready and he is so close to it, can almost taste its rank fear and blood in the air. His coat flutters behind him. Ford is a point of movement and colour in an unending stretch of monotone.

The Stan-o-War is large and of far better quality and make than he remembers it. There are other alterations too, little changes that he had wanted to make but Stan had vetoed. It is exactly how he’d imagined it when he was young, it is what it was meant to be.

He walks up the ramp, steps feather-light and soundless. Almost there. A figure stands at the mast head, looking out into nothing. It isn’t Bill, it is someone far, far worse. He lowers his gun.

“Stan.” He says, toneless. How is his brother here?

“Heya, Sixer.” Stan turns to him, gold glinting on his fists, flickering in his eyes. His brother smiles tightly, crow’s feet bunching up. “Been waiting for you to show up.”

“So you know.” He never meant for this to happen.

Stan’s eyes sweep up and down, burning him with anger. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

He can still fix this. “I’m sorry, Stan.”

Stan laughs, a cold and harsh sound. That was unexpected. “I’m sorry, Stan.” He parrots. “That’s all you gotta say, Stanford. You fucking tore apart my mind and shoved all this shit into it and now you’re gonna apologize. It doesn’t change anything.” His fists are balled tight, muscles tensing like he wants to punch Ford. “I don’t even who I am anymore! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t mean too—”

“Don’t fucking lie. I wasn’t born yesterday. I saw you, okay? Inside your memories in the room on this fucking boat, changing my goddamn memories like it was nothing to you. Is this what you wanted? A convenient lay? The fulfilment of some teenage fantasy of fucking your brother?”

“Stan, I love you. I-I wanted you to feel the same.” Maybe he should be honest. “Please, you’ve got to understand, Lee—”

“I would have let you.” Stan interrupts, quiet and voice shaking. “If you had asked, I would have let you do anything, Stanford.”

Ford supresses his surprise, his satisfaction. Maybe this not unsalvageable. He just needs to make Stan see sense. “You would have hated it. You might have accepted but you would have never wanted it, not like you do now. And then you would have hated me.”

Stan pauses and frowns, but he knows Ford is telling the truth. Good. It may be easier to reason with him now.

“This was better for the both of us, Lee.” Ford attempts a soothing tone.

“Don’t say that! This was for you, you selfish bastard. You never gave a shit about me! You only think about me when you need something!” He’s panting heavily, eyes wide and crazed. He sighs, the anger leaving him, and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Couldn’t you have controlled it? Or gotten over it? Like a goddamn normal person.”

“You saw my mind, Stan. It’s impossible. I’ve loved you for so long and I can’t control it. I’ve waited for you my entire life and I-I wasn’t thinking straight.” Ford moves closer to him and Stan watches, rooted in place. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

He looks at Ford squarely in the eyes. “And there’s nothing you can do to fix me.” There is a faint tinge of hope and fear but mostly there is acceptance.

“No. It’s permanent.” This was not entirely true. It is only permanent because the one person in the world who is able to undo what he has done is himself. Stan doesn’t notice the lie, falling into Ford’s arms, his breath hitching with sobs. He strokes a hand through Stan’s hair, comfortingly, pulling him tight. “I’m so, so sorry.” And his voice cracks because he means it. He never wanted to hurt Stanley, never wanted him to find out.

Stan is tired of fighting and he is too old to run. He must give in, that is the only avenue left to him. “How much did you change?” His voice is muffled, mouth scraping against Ford’s neck.

“Barely anything, Lee. I promise.” And it was true.

Ford feel wetness bleed through his sweater.

 

* * *

 

 

Ford jerks upright, cheat rising and falling rapidly. Stan shifts next to him, cuddling closer. Maybe it was a nightmare. Please, let it be only that.

“Stan—”

Grey tendrils of dawn light leach into the room, illuminating Stan’s face. His brother’s eyes are open: red-rimmed and glazed.

It wasn’t a dream. Oh god.

“Why are you awake, Sixer?” Stan whispers, bone-deep exhaustion heavy in his voice.

Ford doesn’t know if he should hold Stan or move far away from him. Everything was different in the mindscape, blurred and chaotic yet indistinct, like the roar of a turbulent, distant ocean. He understands the mindscape, he doesn’t understand this dimension as much. It unnerves him: the physicality and strength of each sensation, the crippling realization that Stan knew and could leave him. Hopefully he has done enough.

“Please don’t hate me.” Ford knows saying this unnecessary, Stan physically can’t hate him, or at least, he cannot stop loving him. But that has always been so. Part of him thinks that his voice is only hesitant and small to make Stan pity him more and stay, but he truly means it, in his own terrible way. He finally has everything he has ever wanted and he can’t bear the thought of losing it all. He will do anything to keep Stanley. Anything. But that is why this whole mess started.

“Ford, calm down. I can’t go anywhere. Not anymore. Don't want to be in debilitating pain just cause I didn't fuck you enough.” Stan sounds resigned, bitter but he still rubs Ford’s back with gentle hands.

"That's only tied to physical proximity, you don't have to-to touch me, although it helps."

Stan's hands stop moving. The long line of his body freezes next to Ford.

Why did he say that? Stan could leave, Ford has not taken away his free-will. Maybe he should have. But he owes that to Stan. He owes him the truth.

Stan has grown quiet, making Ford increasingly agitated. A question burns in his mind but he does not verbalise it. Instead he asks something else. “How did you do it? How did you – you get inside.” Ford points at his skull, tapping the metal plate so that it rings with a resounding vibration.

“I think it was a bit of Bill. Something he left in me when he died. I knew when you drew those symbols on me. I recognized it, at least part of me did. But I didn’t understand, not fully. And I didn’t think – I couldn’t imagine my nerdy twin brother would do that and I let it go for a while.” Stan grabs at the blanket, twisting it in his hands. “But then I got those headaches and I needed to check and reconfirm that it was only some leftover paranoia. And I went down into your lab and when I saw those symbols, I knew. I fucking knew and I still couldn’t believe it.” He laughs humourlessly. “Guess I’ve always cut you too much slack, Sixer.”

“It still doesn’t make sense, you can’t get inside my head unless I let you.” _Will you stay? Will you stay? Will you stay?_

“Figures that you’d focus on the fucking science behind this out of everything.” And then Stan grins, cocky and large and teasing. He still doesn't understand the question. “You can’t figure it out though? I’ll give you a hint, it’s the only reason you could fuck up my mind.”

Oh.

Now Ford feels foolish. He was so careless. They share the same blood. How could he not have accounted for that?

“We’re twins.”

“I knew you’d catch on quick.” Stan is pleased that Ford has figured it out and he smiles in the same way he did when they were children and Ford had done another brilliant thing. Ford wants to lean over and kiss him, kiss his sleep-warm cheeks and his bruised-red lips but he stops himself.

Stan notices his halted half-movement and takes a deep breath. “It’s fine. Christ.” He inhales sharply, readying himself. “I don’t think I should – I’m fucking crazy for saying this – but I forgive you, Stanford.”

“You do?” Ford asks, flabbergasted. Elated.

“You’re my brother, poindexter. I-I missed you for so long and I want to stay here. With you. This is my home.” He holds onto Ford’s with a painfully tight grip, finger pressed into his wrist so he can feel every beat of his heart. “Whatever you want, Ford—”

He doesn’t finish but Ford understands. This is his answer. Stan wants to want him. His brother is so desperate to have Ford stay here with him that he would do anything. Ford should have never worried that Stan would leave. Stan can’t, Stan never could. He is tied to Ford. He has lived whole life longing for him in a way that is different from Ford’s own yearning, but only by a shade. He is perfect.

Stan leans forward and brushes their lips together.

Ford feels a heady rush of emotion. This can’t be real. Oh god, poor, damaged Stanley with his thrice-broken glass heart and his trembling hands. Stan still needs him and Ford knows this comes from a part of his mind that he has never touched. Stan could say no right now, could never touch Ford again but he does anyway.

Stan kisses him sweetly — light pressure and softness. It's different from before, the urgency and fear is gone and is replaced by warmth. Or maybe he can't bear to kiss Ford deeper. Ford doesn't know and, for once, he doesn't care. Stan is his now, of his own volition and there is something beautiful about this. How he has chosen this for himself. How he has chosen Ford.

Ford tilts his head and guides Stan back onto the sofa. The blanket falls around them, cocooning them in trapped body heat and their scent. The kiss is still slow and exploratory, the kind that reminds Ford of youth, of summer sun and the sound of the sea. But they are old now, and winter wind howls outside the bedroom, cold and wailing.

Ford tilts his head and opens his mouth, deepening the kiss. His nose brushes against Stanley's, pressing into the yielding flesh of his cheek. Stan's lips are chapped and dry; it must hurt to kiss Ford. It must hurt for so many reasons.

Stan surges forward, pushing Ford down onto the sofa, pinning him with his body weight. A bolt of heat shoots through his belly and his cock twitches against his thigh. He's sure Stan can feel it.

"Fuck Ford, you're really—" He stops, licks at Ford's jaw, mouths at his neck, "—hot for this." He says, rapturous. His breath is hot on Ford’s damp skin.

"Y-Yes. I've — ah — needed this for decades." It feels like he's waited even longer, lost centuries and millennia just waiting for Stan to want him back. But what matters now is that Stan is here, on top of him, around him.

Ford threads his hand through Stan's hair and jerks him down roughly. He relishes in Stan’s immediate obedience. He follows Ford’s movements fluidly, not even thinking to pull away. He’s more touch-starved than Ford is.

“God. You’re so good for me, Lee.” Ford murmurs, rolling his hips so Stan knows how much he _wants_ him. “Never gonna let you go.”

Stan pulls away, cheeks pinked visibly in the darkness. Ford is going to ruin him.

“Sixer, I-I love you.”

Maybe he already has.

“Stan, lie down.” Ford shifts over on his side, allowing Stan enough space to fit next to him on the couch. Their cocks drag against each other as they move. Ford takes a moment to admire the length of Stan’s eyelashes, the wrinkles near his eyes, the heat of his gaze. He then pushes Stan beneath him.

“Ford?”

“Hmm. Just relax, Stanley. Let me do this.”

Stan untenses, his hands resting on Ford’s shoulders.

Ford dips his head and places an open mouth kiss on Stan’s collar bone. He traces it with his tongue until he’s at the center of Stan’s chest. His brother’s heart is rabbit fast, because of Ford. He pauses, so close that his lips can feel each soft pulse in Stan’s veins, the scrape of his hair. Stan squirms beneath him, unused to intimacy.

He moves to Stan’s pectorals, sucking at one of his nipples and his brother moans. He twists and pinches at the other one, rolling it between his fingers.

“F-Ford. It hurts.”

But he likes it. Ford can tell.

He bites around the areola and his brother flinches. The imprint of his teeth is stark against Stan’s skin. Stan’s grip is tight enough that it hurts.

He moves lower. His tongue dips inside Stan's navel. He nuzzles his warm belly, nibbles at the sensitive flesh over his ribs. His chin brushes Stan’s cock and his brother’s abdomen trembles beneath him. Stan takes one long breath and holds it, expectant. His cock is purple and leaking, begging for attention. Ford studiously ignores it and kisses the jut of Stan's hip and his brother whines, high in his throat and spreads his legs wider.

"Ford. C'mon. Just—"

Ford listens and dips his head, licking a wet stripe across Stan's hole.

Stan jerks upward, blushing to the tips of his ears, voice gruff but embarrassed. "Ford, you can't do that." He hadn’t expected that.

"I can't?"

"Why would you even want to?" Stan sounds scandalized, trying to close his legs. It’s rather sweet.

Ford smiles, his stubble scratching the vulnerable skin on Stan’s thighs. They are covered with the dried tracks of Ford’s come. “Because I like it.”

Stan's hips tilt up, exposing himself further. Ford bites the soft flesh of Stan's inner thigh and his legs twitch open.

He hooks Stan’s knees over his shoulder and presses his tongue in deeper. Stan’s hole is still loose and red from last night. Each kiss is long and wet and filthy.

He didn’t really plan on doing this but he wants to take care of Stanley. He wants to touch him, mark every tiny bit of him. Stan’s is sweet and tight on his tongue, writhing beneath him because he wants to be fucked so many times he can’t count them all.

“Fuck — You’re doing this. Oh, fuck. Feels so _good_ , Sixer. Didn’t think it would.”

Ford’s tongue is moving in deeper. The tightness inside Stan is glorious and Ford wants to feel it around him again. But he has time. He presses a finger in because he can’t stop himself, it goes in smoothly despite being slicked only by his spit.

"I can't. Not another time. It hurts." Stan whines.

That's alright, Ford has other plans for tonight. Stan deserves to be rewarded. He moves away, and his brother sighs at the loss of contact.

“Patience, Lee.”

He searches for the lubricant he keeps beneath the sofa pillows and pulls it out.

Stan’s eyes narrow. “Ford, I’m not going to be able to sit for a week. I swear, I can’t.”

“This isn’t for you.”

Stan looks at him, pupils blown and breathing fast. “You’re gonna let me fuck you?”

“Whatever you want.”

Stan’s hands shake as he takes the lubricant from Ford. “C-Can I prep you? Please, you gotta let me.”

”I said whatever you want.”

Stan darts forward, pulling Ford towards him, bending him over the back of the sofa. He pauses, suddenly embarrassed. “How do I—?”

“You’ll figure it out, Lee.”

Stan squeezes an excessive amount of slick onto his palm and it dribbles down his fingers. It’s cold but Ford finds that he barely notices. Stan’s fingers are thick and blunt and warm. Ford hasn’t done this in years. His brother goes too fast and it burns in the best way because Ford knows Stan is desperate to be inside of him.

Stan’s hands are worshipful, twisting and scissoring in him like he’s made of raw silk and gold. He has skilful hands, they aren’t calloused the same way Ford’s are, but they have a deftness that can only come from picking pockets.

His fingers are pushing in deeper, so deep. Wet and slick and wonderful. How many are there? Two? Three? Ford wants more.

“Stan. Now.”

Stan shifts behind him, getting onto his knees. “Are you sure?”

Ford can feel the head of his dick, slippery and thick. “Yes.” His voice is low, heavy with lust.

Stan presses in slowly, and maybe Ford made a mistake because his brother is so _big_. It’s endless, there’s so much of Stanley that he’s filled by him and he's drunk from it.

"Holy fuck. You're so tight." Stan's hands are gripping his hips tightly, like he's trying make sure Ford can't pull away and leave him bereft of this sensation.

Stan pulls out, angling his hips slightly and thrusts back in. There’s so much to process that Ford can’t handle it, he’s breathless and reeling. He feels like he’s being split open. Stan’s dick glances against something that causes sparks of pleasure to travel up his spine.

“Fuck. Fuck. Again, Stan. Right there.”

Stan seems to understand because he fucks Ford harder this time, a lewd snap of his hips that causes the sofa to creak. But Ford can’t even hear anything, his entire existence is centered around heat and pleasure.

Stan leans back, dick hard and weeping, wet with slickness and pre-come. “Ford. I wanna see you. Turn around for me.”

Ford twists around, desperate to have Stan inside him again. His legs close around his brother’s waist. Stan is dripping with sweat, his breath puffs out white in the chill of the basement. Ford watches, entranced, as he lines up his dick with his hole and presses in.

The sight is gorgeous. His brother’s dick disappearing inside of him. He’s dreamed of this for years. Stan wants him. Stan wants him so much that each jerk of his hips rattles the sofa and goes so deep it hurts.

“That’s it. Fuck yes, Lee. Just like that.” He leans up and kisses Stan, messy and uncoordinated. “Touch me, Lee.”

Stan does, his grip is jerky and uneven but it is still so good. Ford will feel this for days.

“God, yes. Stanford, you feel — I’m gonna—”

Ford can feel him come, feel his dick twitch inside of him. It’s sticky and wet but he’s so close too and Stan is rutting into him with powerful, jarring strokes and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —

He’s barely been touched and he’s swept away by waves of white light, his body is a live wire, a conduit of sensation, back arched and toes curling.

It is beautiful.

Stan collapses next to him, hair wet with sweat. His arms tighten around Ford and he nuzzles against him, breathing in his scent. Sated.

Ford runs a hand down the notches of Stan’s spine, feeling his breathing start to even out and slow. Little drops of red bead off his fingers and absorb into Stan’s skin, it is so that his back doesn’t hurt tomorrow.

“I can do that too, you know.” Stan’s voice is hazy and tired but he snaps his fingers. Sparks dance in his hand, blue and fleeting, and he writes little symbols onto Ford’s skin. Protection. Healing. Love.

Ford traces the burn mark on Stan’s shoulder, feeling each raised line. It is an old sigil that Bill wouldn’t even know, and it glows at his touch. It means possession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done! Sorry this took so long. Reviews are welcome. Might write some more in the future, or if someone requests something. 
> 
> hmu at https://wubblez-bubblez.tumblr.com/


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